


Painting on Spilled Ink

by Just_playing_along



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 13:57:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8919769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_playing_along/pseuds/Just_playing_along
Summary: "He looked at her, and he knew he wanted to be part of her story."Bellamy and Clarke attend the same university. When he finds her working one day, it is the beginning of a story. He doesn't know if it's a comedy or tragedy, but things can't get much worse, so maybe it doesn't matter.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I thought up. I think it could be a really cool story and I have a lot of ideas, but I'll decide to continue or not based on the reaction for this first "chapter". Its different from other things I've written, more poetic, and that makes me pretty nervous. If I do decide to continue, the chapters will obviously get longer. This was sort of just a tester. Anyways, let me know what you think please!  
> \- just_playing_along

Clarke was the kind of person who ate ice cream every day. She didn't have a plan and wore her hair in a messy braid because she couldn’t be bothered with it falling in her face all the time. There was paint on every article of clothing she owned. It was a reflection of what she was feeling that day; happy, vibrant splatters, or harsh, angry lines. Sometimes small drops would find themselves on her clothes and she knew she had to stop painting when she couldn’t tell if they were coming from her brush or her eyes. She worked in the same spot every day. In a back corner of the art building that wasn’t easy to find. That was where she could let everything go. She could paint her feelings away and leave them on the canvas, just so she didn’t have to show them to the rest of the world. She had a tattoo of a moon on her hip because she knew how it felt to watch the earth so intently and only ever reveal one side of herself. 

Bellamy was different. He was the kind of person that couldn’t go a couple of hours without a cigarette, because if he was going to die eventually, he might as well take some part in it. His hair hung down in front of his eyes, curly and unruly, to hide the words he'd written so that he couldn’t second guess them. It was all well and good, though, because by the time he worked them through his head and inked them in his journal they were almost perfect anyways. He moved around too much, never wanting to see the same scene or meet the same people. He was too honest, showing every emotion through his eyes that he didn’t need people to see him for more than one day; if they did, he knew he'd see pity. When he was young, he'd been different. He'd gotten a white ink tattoo of the world across his back, intending to fill in the countries when he had travelled and seen everything he wanted. Now it just reminded him that he was atlas; holding up the earth on his shoulders. 

He was trying to find a new place to work when he'd stumbled upon that hallway. It was folded in between two classroom doors and looked like it should be closed off, but he saw a light from the back of it. At the end, she was looking at an easel. It had colors smeared all over it, matching the strokes on her forehead that she'd made when her emotions gave her a migraine and she'd had to rest her head in her hands. When he got into the space at the end of the hallway, she looked at him instead. She saw every fleck of indecision and doubt in his eyes. He saw every streak of determination in hers. He looked at her, and he knew he wanted to part of her story.


End file.
